Chasing after the wind
by MostDismalFeldsparkle
Summary: Meanwhile, in another universe...
1. Prologue

_Excerpt from_ **The Student Guide to the Glorious Triumph of the Terran Empire Over the Craven Tribes of Vulcan**

Do you remember, _my dear ones_ , when the stars were just stars?

Do you remember them before they burned with war, before their molten blood burned away our weakness and left us strong?

You do not, _my dear ones_ , for you are so young.

But I shall teach you. I shall tell you your truth.

When Terra was Earth and humanity was young, we knew that the skies were filled by gods and by monsters. By some instinct we saw the dragons, the scorpions, the lions , and we feared it.

But then we forgot. We looked to the skies and we saw the planets dance and we came to imagine the stars as distant, spinning orbs. We saw clockwork, we saw ice and vast distances, and we forgot the dragons, the lions, the scorpions.

We forgot the eyes.

When they came for us, they came disguised.

They sent their priests first, their senators. Placid fools that preached diversity and ponderous, pacifistic infinities. Droning voices and white robes.

We were not fooled, my dear ones.

We were wise.

And, we were more than wise.

We were _victorious_.

We conquered them.

And we sniffed out their trap. Their hidden warrior clans. They hid them on a new planet; they gave them a new name.

But we were not fooled.

Vulcan is Romulan is Vulcan.

And so we burnt these warrior clans, my dear ones. They died howling at the sky.

Their buildings, their armour, their clothes, their skin. Each was burned from them in turn.

The priests keened and cowered, and yet still lied, and lied again.

"We did not know of them," they said in mewling unison. "The knowledge was lost."

Were it not for this treachery toward their own lost warriors, we might have punished them only with death.

But the brave and the cowardly must not share the same fate.

It is blasphemy.


	2. Florida Restoration Area 2133

**Florida Reclamation Zone 2133**

* * *

The boy was late and he knew it. Past curfew.

He could hear his mother snoring reproachfully which meant...

"It's me!" he called into the dark, over the sound of the whine of the arming laser pistol. Even under threat of death he was careful not to call loudly enough to wake his mother. No point to adding another target, moving in the dark.

"Charles?" a voice answered, and from the tension in that voice, the boy thanked his lucky stars that there had been any warning at all.

"Yes! It's me. Just me," the boy answered. Because he _WAS_ Charles.

When he was younger, it was true, he had been Trip, third of his name. But then there had been a purge, and after this purge it had been decidedly unwise to make any reference at all to the first of his name. and so he'd become the second of his name.

And with "Charlie" taken by the man in the dark - by the man currently pointing a goddamn laser pistol at him, _AGAIN_ \- well, that made him...

"Yes. It's me, dad. Charles. Put the gun down okay. I'm sorry I'm late."

The boy stood perfectly still waiting for the tell-tale decrescendo of a pistol coil depowering, or at the very least the sound of a pistol being placed on the table.

But his father's answer was quite different. Words spat into the darkness. "You've been with HER again, haven't you?"

The boy sighed. "No dad. I've told you. I keep telling you. There IS no her."

"Don't lie to me, boy. I've seen her..."

"...No, Dad, you CAN'T have seen anyone, because..."

"I've HAVE seen her. I've always seen her. From the day you were born, I've seen her behind my eyes. The witch. _Medea_. She's coming for you. She's coming for you. And by the time she's done with you, you'll die on the executioner's block with her spittle drying on your cheek. You mark me, Charles."

The boy sighed and his voice grew thick. "Okay, Dad. I hear you. But I havent seen her. That weren't where I was tonight. I was just out on my boat and I decided to rebuild the engine and it got late. The only 'hers' I've seen today were 'gators, and they let me be. Gators and mum, I suppose."

Suddenly his father was laughing, and the pistol was finally lowered. "Gators and your mom! Aint much distinction, is there? She tried to poison me again today, if you can believe it. Wonder how long it will take her to learn that I always know when she's at it? Must drive her crazy that I know every time! Tonight, I lifted the fork ALMOST all the way to my mouth 'fore I just flipped the food onto the floor, cool as you please, grabbed me a fresh beer, and strolled on out to the porch. Shoulda seen her face!"

The boy chuckled hesitantly. "So… you haven't eaten then, Dad? Want me to fix you a sandwich? You can watch if you like..."

His father patted him on the back then, two great booming blows that almost knocked the wind out of him. "Nah, I don't need to watch. I trust ya. And bring me another beer while you're at it."

The boy scurried to the kitchen, where he quickly assembled several peanut butter and pickle sandwiches, observed only by his mother's sad-eyed Basset Hound. When he was done, he stacked the sandwiches on a white tin plate (one that would not shatter nor hurt to much were it shortly thrown in his face), grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge (that he'd just have to watch out for), remembered, at the last moment, the bottle opener, and tossed the loaf edge to the sad-eyed dog.

The boy had remembered to make the sandwiches in the dark so by the time he returned to his father his eyes had about adjusted. Enough to make out the hunched shape, enough to clock the pistol, still in reach of the shape on the table. "Here we go, Dad. You're favorite."

His father bit heartily into the sandwich, chewed appreciatively, took a long swig of the beer. "Dog dead?" he then asked casually.

The boy frowned "...No...?"

"Figures. Saw the mangy thing eating my slop from the floor, before the old bitch could clean it up. Figure, though, that she'd it an antidote. She always liked it better than he."

The boy stood perfectly still throughout this declaration, and throughout the following swig of beer. The one that finished the bottle.

But then the father stood. Stood, wiped his mouth, and reached for the pistol. "She's always liked that damn dog better'n me," he said, and, with the pistol, strode toward the kitchen.

The boy ran the other way. To his room. To his bed. Under his blanket. And he muffled the sound of the shot with his pillow.


	3. Central London 2135

**Central London 2135**

* * *

There were many deeply unfortunate things about being Stuart Reed's son, and this day in particular was destined to be filled with them.

"I don't want to DO this," he'd hissed desperately to his mother, that morning, as she'd methodically wiped her already spotless kitchen countertop.

She had sighed loudly, and rolled her eyes.

In retrospect, Malcolm didn't know what he'd been thinking. If his mother didn't deign to interfere with his annual banishment to Pit Camp, she was hardly likely to exert herself, on his behalf, with regard to THIS.

Yes, there were many _profoundly_ unfortunate things about being Stuart Reed's son.

In fact, just at this moment, Malcolm could only think of one _GOOD_ thing about being Stuart Reed's son.

Sturt Reed was used to cadets. To _lecturing_ military cadets. And military cadets were apparently not expected to look at whoever was currently lecturing them straight in the eye.

And so, even as his father ranted and berated, Malcolm was currently allowed the one, near-perfect luxury of staring of into the middle distance, and only listening hard enough to say "Yes, sir," at all the appropriate moments.

Despite the show, nobody in the busy square was paying them much mind. The people of London were apparently very concerned about their own business today, and that was just as well.

Malcolm liked to imagine that, rather than the being Stuart's oldest, ONLY son, he was instead at the end of a long line of brothers. A long line of brothers, all of whom had ended up shooting themselves in the face out of sheer outraged humiliation and had been promptly buried, in rows, beneath his mother's hollyhocks.

Perhaps we are all reincarnated as pigeons, he mused, my brothers and I. And we get to fly around Trafalgar Square endlessly shitting on things.

It was a cheering thought, but Stuart's rant was over. It was time.

Deciding that it was marginally less humiliating than being dragged into such a place, Malcolm walked into the musty, high-vaulted building under his own power, walking in time to music inside his head, in order to keep his hesitancy out of his stride. His father had made it exquisitely clear that he was not leaving here without one, and further protests would only prolong the inevitable. And so Malcolm resolved to declare himself ENORMOUSLY attracted to whichever one he saw first, and just get the whole unpleasant business over with as quickly as possible. Whichever FEMALE one he saw first, that was. He wasn't nearly stupid enough to open up _THAT_ can of worms.

And so, it all happened very quickly in the end. There was one in the manager's office even as Malcolm and Stuart walked in. She had apparently only just arrived.

"Brand new stock," the manager oozed.

"Yes, fine, her." Malcolm said quickly.

"Very attractive, as you can see," the manager purred.

A sales pitch, yes, but Malcolm supposed it was true enough.

Then he realized that a previously unforeseen side benefit of this trip had fallen into his lap. Costing his father as much money as possible, with no added inconvenience to himself. Surely this shapely, pretty brunette wasn't cheap.

Her large eyes sought his, and he ignored her.

"A certified virgin," the manager pouted. "Which is a premium feature, but highly desirable to the discerning..."

"Yes. Absolutely," Malcolm replied tightly.

The manager frowned slightly. "We have other..."

"Absolutely not. I've made up my mind. I've decided. This one. Thank you for your help. Er...goodbye?"

"Then I will make the shipping arrangements," the manager replied smoothly, and after making the necessary pleasantries required by Stuart's wealth and rank showed them to the door.

Back on the street Malcolm sucked in big lungfuls of air as if he'd emerged from a miasma. And somewhere in the wild depths of his mind a part of him awoke, insisting that he think about what he'd just done. He stamped on it hard.

Then Sturt stepped abruptly into his line of sight. "So, you went from dragging your heels to suddenly demanding a gold tier virgin, did you?"

"Yes," Malcolm replied firmly, raising his eyes to meet his father's, determined to claim this one small triumph. But when he looked into Stuart's eyes for the irritation he'd expected in response to such extravagance, he didn't see it.

He saw something much worse, something which brought him perilously close to the suicide of vomiting straight into his father's face.

He saw a smouldering, begrudging pride.


	4. Central London 2135 Part II

**Central London 2135**

* * *

"We didn't teach her to read, you know! It just sort of happened."

The woman, "Bunty" apparently, her old owners' daughter, was making a real mess of things, in T'Pol's humble opinion. It's not as though this slave vendor would have ever _KNOWN_ T'Pol could read. She certainly would never have let on.

"These things _DO_ happen," the odious man replied sympathetically. "It shouldn't be as much of a problem as you imagine, madam. Some of our clients even prefer that their courtesans have some manner of education. And this particular creature certainly has many compensating virtues."

Bunty frowned. "I can't let her go too cheaply. Who knew there was such a thing as inheritance tax? You wouldn't believe how much of the estate I'm having to sell, just to keep the manor in the family! It's ridiculous! My parents already paid tax on everything they've ever bought or earnt! So how can those freeloaders on the government teat possibly be entitled to more?"

The odious man raised an eyebrow. "I _QUITE_ agree madam."

"I suppose they didn't pay tax, per se, on THAT one," Bunty wittered on, waving a gloved hand in T'Pol's direction. "Since they bred her themselves, but they've fed her and kept a roof over her head these forty years, and they certainly paid tax on food and shingles, let me tell you."

"Indeed madam. And I assure you that there will be many suitable buyers among our exclusive clientele..."

"The finances of the whole estate will have to be _COMPLETELY_ reorganised, of course. My father was too soft headed for this sort of thing, but I've acquired the services of an excellent accountant. I shall NOT be leaving this sort of tax bill for my dear little Henry to deal with."

On T'Pol's one and only encounter with dear little Henry, he had kicked her hard in both shins, all while chewing a caramel with his mouth open.

"Your merchandise will fetch the highest prices, madam, I assure you."

"And the reading shalln't be a problem? Because I assure you the little demon just picked it up of her own accord. I do wonder if it might be worth paying to have her muted, to avoid the reading being discovered, only..."

The odious man cooed soothingly. "In my extensive experience, madam, it is to your advantage to leave such bespoke modifications to the taste of the purchaser. Those of us who know quality, we do want things just as we like them, don't we? Now don't worry, I'm certain I'll have good news for you very quickly. Leave it all in my capable hands."

And after only a few more braying sniffs, Bunty was gone, and the odious man turned back to T'Pol, his manner quite altered, now brisk and business like. He donned latex gloves before touching her, and ran a disinterested finger across her teeth, her nipples, her hymen. She could have bitten him, she supposed, but she would have died for it.

"She certainly can talk, can't she?" the odious man muttered aloud. He presumably meaning Bunty as T'Pol had not spoken a word in hours. "My next clients are due. Don't speak unless spoken to."

Some clock somewhere then chimed the hour, and the odious man's odious clients abruptly presented themselves. A father and son presumably. The father a scowling and grizzled sort, wrapped in sun-leathered skin, and finding fault with all that fell beneath his gaze. The son, pale and subtly trembling like a thin wire under tension, glanced somewhat frantically around the room, before fixing his gaze, and then his mind squarely upon T'Pol, as if she were a life vest in a squalling sea.

And scant seconds later, T'Pol found she had been sold as a pleasure slave. Just this morning she had woken up with her mother in their wooden barracks. Her mother's arm had stolen around her shoulder to embrace her as she slept as it sometimes still did even know. She hadn't known then that the last time she'd seen her mother would be _the last time_.

She knew now.


	5. Florida Reclamation Zone 2133 Part II

**Florida Reclamation Zone 2133**

* * *

They take turns digging the grave, the boy and his sister. It takes longer than they expect - the dog seemed larger in death somehow - and so by the time they are finished, the sun is high and the air all but saturated with sticky heat.

"Is mom coming?" he asks as he drops is shovel.

Around them little robots flit like hummingbirds. They are luring and trapping mosquitos. They built them together last summer, hid them in a crate under the porch through the winter and turned them on again a few weeks ago.

Elizabeth arranges moonflowers and tangled vines at the bottom of the hole. She only shrugs at his question. "I don't think so. Her door is locked. She won't come out."

He nods sharply and they lift the old bloodhound gently down onto the bed of vines and flowers, and begin to cover it with dirt.

Elizabeth seems fine, until suddenly she doesn't. With a low moan she drops to her knees, and claws through the dirt until some of the reddish brown fur is exposed again. She brushes a little patch clean and caresses it with her fingers and all the time cries silently.

He crouches beside her, and places a hand on her shoulder, and they stay there long enough that the muscles in his legs begin to cramp. Then, they again stand and continue to fill the hole.

"It was nearly me that he shot, I think," the boy says at last, as his sister arranges more moonflowers on the loose earth. And then, "Maybe we shoulda used a box. Like a coffin. I didn't like seeing the dirt in his fur either."

Elizabeth answers slowly. "I will be one of us, one of these days." And then "Charles, if it's me, make sure I get a box. I think he'll want to just make me disappear, just throw me in the swamp. But don't let him Charles. Please don't. I'm afraid of the gators. I don't want gators to eat me. Even if I am dead."

Charles frowns uneasily. "Hey darlin', don't say stuff like that. You're going t'be fine. Nothin bad will happen."

Elizabeth spits. She has mud under her fingernails, mud on the hem of her white sundress, mud on the tips of her loose, blonde hair. "Something bad happened to Maverick."

"Maverick? I thought his name was Hornet?"

Elizabeth shakes her head. "Nah, Hornet was the one he ran over. The one with the spot like a heart."

"Yeah, you're right," the boy agrees. "I forgot about that."


	6. Kyoto 2135

**Kyoto 2135**

* * *

"No!"

 _Whack!_

The cane landed in the little gap between the ends of the black keys and the beginning of Hoshi's fingers. Hoshi yelped, and then began to cough violently as some saliva went down the wrong way.

At most subjects she did fine, at some- all the languages - she did brilliantly, even music theory was fine. But somewhere between her brain and her fingers, the music leaked out of her as though she had sprung a leak.

And failure was not permitted here. The fact that it missed her fingers was probably more good luck than good management.

"Again!"

So she stumbled again through the opening of the Wagnerian piano sonata, and this time the cane did not miss.

The pain came a few seconds after the sound. Then the whimper, then the tears.

"Nurse!"

So Hoshi, clutching her injured fingers to her chest, slinked out the door, crept along the very edge of the school's wide corridors, and down the rickety stairs.

Arriving in the converted root cellar- relic of World War III- she edged carefully around the dirty khaki-canvas sling cots in search of the nurse.

She didn't find the woman she expected.

Instead, she pulled up short at the sight of her replacement, an alien.

"Nurse?" she asked hesitantly in Denobulan.

The man scowled. "Doctor!" he replied cuttingly in a way which corrected both her misidentification and her phoneme pronunciation.

Hoshi lowered her eyes, made an awkward gesture of deference and apology, and held out her aching, shaking hand.

"You have broken fingers," the doctor observed flatly, speaking this time in Japanese. From his accent he had not learned it here in Kyoto. It must have been in Tokyo, or perhaps even further away. "How much would you say that hurts, on a scale of 1 to 12?"

"Eight," Hoshi wheezed.

"Really? You might want to work on your pain tolerance, young lady. I doubt that will be the last set of broken bones this school supplies you with."

"Certainly not with Old man Hihi as a tutor," came a drawling voice from the door. Hoshi spun around to see a senior girl standing in the door frame, flanked by two friends. THE senior girl, really. Masayo. She was still eight months from graduating and already there were several senators bidding to be her patron. "He drills a core through his canes and feeds a lead rod through them. WHACK!"

Hoshi flinched.

The doctor did not. "And how can I help you? You don't appear injured."

Masayo pursed her lips. "I got injured in the _Advanced Class_."

The doctor's face remained blank. "Injured how?"

Masayo narrowed her eyes. "An _Advanced Class Injury_ ," she repeated, at an insultingly slow pace.

Despite her aching hand, Hoshi listened carefully. There was a great deal of curiosity among the junior girls regarding exactly what the Advanced Classes entailed, but the senior girls were notoriously close-lipped regarding them, and the staff beat them in response to any inquiry about them. All they'd really been able to glean was that the skills they would learn in Advanced Classes would be more important for pleasing patrons than all the language, art history and music classes combined.

And what happened next was fascinating- although not quite in the way Hoshi hoped - because in the face of this strange doctor's disinterested bafflement, Masayo - Ice Queen- lowered her eyes, lowered her voice, developed a very slight tremble in her lips. "I... I tore, okay? I'm bleeding. A lot I think. Are you going to help me or not?"

The doctor studied her closely, then turned to Hoshi. "I think perhaps you'd better wait," he said flatly, before directing her to a chair, drawing a curtain in her face, and leaving her waiting in agony for 20 minutes while he tended to Masayo.

Hoshi spent the time staring at her reflection in a shiny kidney bowl, working as well as she could with her distorted reflection to copy the faces Masayo had just made. The faces that had let Masayo jump ahead of Hoshi in the queue.

At long last, it was her turn and her fingers were set and knitted together. Only after he was done squeezing and pulling at her fingers did the doctor finally give her something for the pain - a small amount of tea coloured liquid from a brown dropper bottle.

"I suggest," he said. "That you avoid disappointing this Mr Hihi in future, young lady."

Hoshi frowned. "His name is Mr Hara, not Hihi. The senior girls just call him that because he's so old."

"Is that so?"

"Yes," Hoshi replied sharply, and because she was angry at being made to wait while Masayo pushed in, she added, "And I'm sure they will call you an even more unflattering name."

The doctor only shrugged. "And society will call THEM an even less flattering name than that. And you also, when your turn comes. So the world turns. Long live the Emperor"

"And long live the Empire," Hoshi parroted in response. She didn't what he had meant so she hurried away without replying, less she appear foolish.


	7. Carlisle 2135

**Carlisle 2135**

* * *

T'Pol made her journey in a reinforced crate. It was small, too small, and so she'd meditated. Old chants her mother had taught her. Chants the Great Surak had told would unlock the infinite truths of all things. Chants which Surak's people now mainly used to stay sane in crates when shipped from place to place.

She'd not opened her eyes the whole way. She'd not opened her eyes when the housemaster took delivery of her, or when he'd opened the crate. But finally, when he impatiently cleared his throat he had to. So she did.

The housemaster, she saw was a Vulcan as well, which was not unusual, an older man, perhaps her mother's age, with grey hair and an unreadable face.

"You must call me Lloyd," he said to her without preamble.

"Lloyd," she repeated carefully, she'd not heard that syllable before.

"And you are called?"

"I have been called Rosalind," she replied cautiously for this is the way of things now. He has not told her his real name - his Vulcan name - and so she cannot tell him hers. She cannot trust him, she cannot trust ANYONE here. Most Vulcans she had met were of Vulcanmind, but some were of humanmind, and those might kill her instantly were she to say her real name. She'd seen it happen.

"Very well, Rosalind," Lloyd replied. "I shall escort you upstairs now. I expect you have some understanding of the services for which you have been purchsed."

"Yes," T'Pol replied bloodlessly.

She was whisked upstairs then, snd lead off a corridor into a spacious set of rooms, bruskly chained to a wall by a chain of moderate length, and left completely alone without another word being spoken.

She had spent very little of her life entirely alone, and no time at all in a room like this one. She considered escape, as foolish as it would have been, but there was nothing within her reach, and her hands were immobilised by splint like bindings anyway. And there was the matter of the chain. Nothing at all within her reach. No food. No water. No lavatory. It was just a larger crate.

She tried to return to her meditation, but peace deserted her, so she turned her mind instead to memorising the room, one inch then another.

Eventually he came. The son, not the father. He walked into the room, as if he owned it, so she supposed that he did, not even looking up from whatever book he was engrossed with. He dropped a satchel slowly from his shoulder to the floor, still not looking up. The abandoned satchel was the only hint of disorder in the otherwise immaculate room.

When she cleared her throat, he startled, and he only just managed to hold onto the book. He stared at her wordlessly, as if entirely unable to account for her.

"Did you forget you had purchased me?" she asked incredulous.

"I...er...no. I just didn't realise you would be... right there. Already. I... I'm new to this."

T'Pol blinked. "As am I. As I believe you are aware. As I believe you paid a premium for."

"Right," he replied unhappily. "Um... are you hungry?"

"Yes," T'Pol answered quite truthfully. She was beginning to sense that this human was a fair bit younger than she had assumed.

"Okay... well... I should fix that I suppose," he continued haltingly. "Um...what do Vulcan's eat?"

"You have Vulcan slaves here," T'Pol replied baffled. "At least one of them. I met Llyod. How can you live in a house with Vulcans and not know what we eat? How can you own Vulcans and not know what we eat."

"Um... well... I'm not actually in charge of feeding them? And frankly, you needn't be so cross with me. I'm just trying to get you something to eat. So, if you could just tell me what Vulcans eat, I will go and sort it out. Or I could look it up I suppose. Or, did you come with any information sheets?"

T'Pol blinked. "Did I come with ' _Information sheets_ '? No. I did not."

"Right. Well that's the first think I'd change. This has all been most unnecessarily difficult, and a few helpful tips, such as what Vulcans are supposed to eat would enormously simplify the process, and you still haven't told me by the way."

T'Pol paused. The answer to _"What do Vulcans eat?"_ was _"Whatever was put in front of them, and not enough of it, at that,"_ but she remembered something her mother had told her, a little pearl of Vulcan lore. "We do not eat the fleah of animals. To do so is violent and barbarous. We eat plants."

To T'Pol's amazement the young man's troubled face broke temporarily into a relieved smile.

"Oh! That's it? You're just a vegan? But that's easy! My sister is even a vegan sometimes. We'll get take out..."

T'Pol waited for some sort of further clue about what 'take out' might be, but none was forthcoming.

"Oh! Here we go! Thai! That will work, and its only just up the road, we can walk... although, I'd probably just go myself, wouldn't I? I'm sure my father would say that it wouldnt be proper to take you. And I've no idea what the resturant would do, to be honest. I should find out, because if you are allowed in, you can go next time...er...here we go! Now, how do you feel about tofu? Oh, you know what? This will be a while, and you're hungry now, and I still have an apple from lunch, and... oh, here you go!"

He held out the apple, large glossy and red, his brow soon furrowing with confusion when she did not take it.

With a sigh, T'Pol held up her still splinted hands.

"What are those? Did you catch your fingers in something?"

"They are restraints. For transport."

"Oh... right. Obviously. Well, I'm sorry you weren't unpacked properly. Erm... here, hold this," he said, absently forcing the apple between T'Pol's teeth. Sweet juice leaked out from each place her teeth punctured it, and she almost sobbed from hunger.

Astonishingly, despite his general air of hopelessness, the young man quickly inferred the mechanism of the hand splints and soon had them removed. With a slightly self satisfied flourish he tossed them absently on the bed, and then turned his back on her, his neck within easy reach of her now unrestrained hands.

Slowly T'Pol took the apple out of her mouth, observing the white flesh poking through the red skin, The man would be the opposite. White fleah and red blood, and salty instead of sweet.

"Do you intend to rape me this evening?" she asked calmly, considering the apple. If she aimed this apple well, she could crack his skull with a single throw.

The young man's demenour shifted again. "I...um...well...no...because...because, um, because you've been travelling, and so you must be tired. So... for now, let's just you eat your apple, I'll fetch the take away, we'll both get a good night's sleep and then we'll figure out what to do tomorrow."

T'Pol considered. "That is surprisingly wise advice," she replied at length, and then began to consume the apple, mindfully savouring each sweet, nourishing bite.


	8. Kyoto 2135 Part II

**Kyoto 2135**

* * *

"I'll be Empress one day," Hoshi murmured into the dark, once she'd finally got herself comfortably arranged in her cot, with her throbbing fingers protected by her pillow on one side and a rolled up spare blanket on the other.

"What?" Hinata slurred sleepily from the next cot, and then, "Go to sleep!"

"I said, I'll be Empress one day," Hoshi repeated loudly. "And when I am, I'll make it a Royal degree that Masayo is to be randomly sent to the back of any queue she is in at least four times a day."

"She was probably just more badly hurt than you Hoshi," Hinata replied. "Triage is a thing. Look it up."

"She was _NOT_. She was just _standing there_ , perfectly fine, and I had _broken bones_! She thinks because she is beautiful and popular, she can have whatever she wants."

Hinata growled. " _YOU_ are beautiful and popular. In another eight years you will _BE_ Masayo!"

"Yes! and in another eight years after that I'll be Masayo's Empress and to the back of every queue she goes."

"Yeah. That will show her for visiting a nurse," Hinata replied, her voice muffled by her pillow.

"And I'll show my parents, too. They thought they could banish me to this place?"

"It's not a gulag, Hoshi, it's a school. The best finishing school east of the Himalayas, remember? They just want what's best for you. They want more for you than farming yams and they are spending most of their money to buy you that future. They want you to have choices, prospects. "

"I don't need help from this school. I don't need help from anyone. "

"...Except school nurses, apparently."

Hoshi's eyes narrowed in the dark. "Maybe when I'm Empress, I'll have your lips sewn shut for talking to me like that."

"Okay Hoshi, fine. When you are Empress you can sew my lips shut. Just leave me a gap for a straw. Otherwise, knock yourself out. For now though, you aren't Empress and if you don't shut up so I can get some sleep, I will hold this pillow on your face until you do."

Hinata was quite a bit stronger than Hoshi, and so Hoshi did shut up. She was too upset, however, to fall asleep quickly. This was a problem, because once Hinata's machinery-like snoring started up, she had no chance at all.

So instead of sleep, Hoshi lay in the dark. She imagined herself Empress. She imagined herself banishing her parents somewhere horrible, so they would know what it felt like. That irratiated swamp-land in Florida, maybe.

And she'd finally get some respect from Hinata. Sewing her mouth up would be fun, but she'd have to make her bow too. Maybe she could chain her like that? In a bow? There was a rumour that there was a module in the Advanced Class on tying people up, which seemed weird to Hoshi, but she'd heard it from more than one source so it was probably true. Maybe she could sneak a look at a textbook. Get some ideas?

And as for Mr Hara, who was he to so casually break her fingers, over some stupid sonata? She'd show him. She'd break _HIS_ fingers. She'd break all his bones. All 206 of them. One at a time. One a day maybe.

When she was Empress.

Her parents had named her after a star. And she was going to be one.

Shine like one.

 _Burn_ like one.


	9. Florida 2136

**The Estate of Admiral Maxwell Forrest - Florida 2136**

* * *

Henry Archer followed his son out of the transport carefully. Even now, very few knew anything about his illness and he would much prefer to keep things that way.

Hazards like Maxwell Forrest's gravel driveway were a rarity. There were probably less than a hundred estates of this size on the eastern seaboard. Forrest had just so happened to have a friend in government, and had just so happened to purchase thousands of acres of irradiated swamp land, _just_ before the Florida reclamation project was announced.

And so the world turns, Henry mused.

Their host greeted them with a clammy handshake - although Henry supposed that clamminess was inevitable in this sort of climate - and they soon found themselves deposited on a veranda, overlooking an immaculately maintained subtropical garden, with cold, minted drinks in hand.

"Shouldn't we be worried about the mosquitos?" Jonathan asked, as ever scanning the scene for anything that might endanger his father.

Their host did not appear offended. Instead he smiled - _clammily_!- and gestured lazily into the air. "No, as you see..."

And in a moment they did see, for just as a large mosquito dodged nearer, a little hummingbird-like robot darted out of nowhere and snatched it out of the air.

Jonathan acted with similar speed, tossing the dregs of his drink into the hedge and catching the little 'bot under his over-turned glass in one fluid motion.

"Remarkable," Henry intoned, mostly from politeness. Mostly, that is, until he'd had a good look at the thing, while it spent a few seconds seeking an exit from its glass prison, before it powered down, watchfully. "Elegant. Your work? How is it powered?"

"Wonderful little machines," Forrest replied, examining his fingernails. " _Not_ my own work, although I'd love to tell you otherwise. Actually, one of the swamp-rats builds 'em for me. Solar powered, they are."

"Something of a novelty," Henry replied diplomatically. The emperor strongly favoured the nuclear power industry these days.

"They all have self-contained micro-panels," Forrest continued lazily. "And what they don't use themselves they download to the grid. Runs the Vulcans' quarters. Saves me a mint. And what's more, all the mosquitos the 'bots collect get recycled into the Vulcans' food. Free protein."

This last piece of information drove Jonathan to his feet. "You'd feed Vulcans mosquitos? Risk them eating your own blood?"

Forrest eyed him coolly. "You're superstitious, are you, young man?"

Jonathan bristled, "I wouldn't give one particle of myself to some filthy Vulcan."

"Then you don't know what you are missing," Forrest replied, raising his eyebrows. "I give one a good ten inches of myself several times a day. You might find you'd be a good deal less tense if you'd..."

"Tell me, Max, just what is a 'swamp-rat'?" Henry interrupted firmly.

Forrest relaxed back into his chair. "The _unwashed brats_ who live in shacks on my land with their _unwashed parents_. Said _unwashed parents_ can never make rent of course, so they send their brats up here to work it off in trade. One way or another. See, it might only be once every seven years, but when you have as many Vulcans as I do, it adds up. Let me tell you, it seems like one of them in season every other week. So the unlucky swamp-rats earn their keep _THAT_ way, and the lucky ones do other odds and ends. This one kid, though, he and his sister build these little 'bots for me. Kid is something of a savant by swamp-rat standards."

"Yes, he'd have to be," Henry mused, leaning over and releasing the little 'bot from the glass and watching it power up and flitter away. "Now, Max, shall we get down to business?"

The business to be concluded concerned Henry Archer's Warp 5 prototype, Maxwell Forrest's elite wing of the Imperial fleet, and how the one might assist the other. Most of this was conducted with Jonathan present, but for the last few documents Henry invented a pretext to send Jonathan to the car. The Warp 5 engine and Jonathan Archer were to go to Maxwell Forrest as a package deal. Jonathan would have his longed-for career, aptitude tests be damned, and he would hopefully be none the wiser as to why.

"Thank you for coming all the way out here, Henry," Forrest said pleasantly enough, farewelling them in his driveway with one more clammy handshake, this one much firmer, _ALMOST_ tipping Henry's precarious balance, although not _QUITE_.

"You have a beautiful home," Henry replied, smoothly, just recovering his balance. "Thank you for your hospitality."

Forrest turned to go, but at the last moment a thought struck Henry Archer and he called Forrest back. "Oh, and Max? That kid, the one who build the 'bots? If he ever gets himself in a hole that he can't work his way out of with either his mind or his ass? Send him my way..."


	10. Carlisle 2136

**Carlisle 2136**

* * *

"Where did you get the scars?" T'Pol asked Malcolm, setting down her book.

The books had started on the very first morning she'd been here. Malcolm had inquired what exactly she was supposed to do with herself all day. When she'd shrugged, Malcolm had pulled out a heavy book - an actual paper book, some sort of antique illustrated atlas- and handed it to her absently, seemingly completely unaware of the huge social taboo he'd just broken. Then he had handed her several packages of potato chips and made as if to leave.

"Aren't you going to cage me before you leave?" T'Pol had asked. He hadn't when he'd gone to get the take out, but that had only been for half an hour or so.

He'd frowned. "Would you feel safer that way?" he said after a moment, a response T'Pol had found so baffling that she could again only shrug in reply.

He shrugged also. "Well, the key is in the draw thingy over there, so suit yourself."

The weeks that had followed had been equally contrary to T'Pol's expectations. He tidied up after himself, actively resisting any effort she made to help, left her perpetually unrestrained such as she could have easily killed him at any moment, and only ever touched her accidentally. They ate together - and here he _did_ impose on her- repeatedly forcing conversation with the air of one practicing it. In truth she barely minded, for she saw almost no one else, apart from the a laundry slave, who never lingered longer than moments. In fact, Malcolm generally even refused to change clothes in front of her, meaning that it took weeks - and his running very late to some dinner party or another - before she'd even caught a glimpse of the huge network of torso scars she was now asking about,

"What scars?"

T'Pol frowned. "You are being disingenuous to momentarily avoid answering my question. There is no logic to this, as I have no status to demand an answer from you."

Malcolm flinched, as he always did, when T'Pol made referencd to her slave status. All in all, it appeared that he'd rather pretend she was something between a roommate and a pet cobra.

"Yes, I suppose I am," he muttered. "The scars are from the 'pit camps. I'm sent every year."

"What are 'pit camps?"

"Hell," he replied grimly, but continued before she could point out that this response is unhelpful, "You go there in the summer, between school terms. In theory, you train and you spar, and you learn survival skills, self-defense skills and what not, to prepare you for life in one of the Imperial Forces. In practice, the larger kids beat the shit out of the smaller kids and you learn that larger kids beat the shit out of smaller kids. However, from what I gather, this _ALSO_ prepares you for life in the Imperial Military Academy."

T'Pol nodded slowly. "I see."

"You WILL see. The academy at least. We'll be going there in a few years."

"Will I get to spar?"

He laughed. "Oh no! You'll be there to be seen. To make me look rich and urbane and destined for greatness. But don't worry. I'm perfectly aware that you can't work miracles."

She would have said more in reply, but his mood altered abruptly. He got up without another word, quickly readied himself for bed without giving her so much as a glance, and then pretended to fall asleep.

T'Pol picked up her book again, for even in the low light she could manage it, and continued reading, her attention half on the equations printed before her in the old physics textbook and partly on the sound of Malcolm's breathing and heart-rate, listening for the changes that would inform her that he was now actually asleep.

Then a knock at the door caught her attention. Malcolm must have heard it too because his heartbeat picked up dramatically. However, he did not abandon his pretense at sleep, and so T'Pol stood and moved quietly toward the door. Such an intrusion was unusual, but was likely only to be one of the household slaves requiring something or other.

She opened the door to discover the housemaster, the Vulcan who had introduced himself as Lloyd.

And 'Lloyd' was frowning. "I do hope, 'Rosalind', that you will excuse the intrusion. But I believe that the two of you are about to experience some serious inconvenience."


	11. Carlisle 2136 Part II

**Carlisle 2136**

* * *

The Vulcan woman, Rosalind, was standing over his bed.

"We need to copulate immediately."

This was such a dramatic change in attitude from any of their previous conversations, that this could only be explained by the contents of the whispered conversation she had just had with the housemaster.

And, given that, Malcolm was struggling to think of a way this could possibly be good news.

Or neutral news.

Or, in any way _NOT_ a bloody disaster.

"Wait... what's happening?" he asked, making a show of pretending to wake up, until an impatient eyebrow curtailed his theatrics.

"We must copulate immediately," she repeated grimly. "Prepare yourself."

"Well, no...wait. Why? _What's_ happening?"

She opened her mouth as if to answer, but then closed it quickly again, and creased her brow in frantic thought.

She was unwilling to betray the housemaster Malcolm supposed, but he found himself unwilling to make him for such niceties. "What's happening? What did Lloyd say?"

Rosalind settled her shoulders. "Word has reached your father that you have not...used me for my intended purpose. I would like to stay here. You allow me to read, and feed me properly, and do not harm me, apart from the inevitable, irrevocable, and insurmountable harms of slavery..."

"...You're welcome...?"

"... and so I would like to stay, rather than gamble on a more favourable outcome if I am removed from your possession. From what Lloyd has told me, you would also be at risk from harm should your father not believe you have penetrated me regularly."

"You can say that again."

Rosalind frowned. "So it would be best, when investigation begins that this rumour which has reached your father were proven ..."

"About that," Malcolm interrupted. "Just _HOW_ did my father find out that I don't want to... that...ahem, so far I've spared your modesty?"

"Lloyd didn't know for certain, however he suspects... we suspect..." Rosalind paused, yet another war raging across her face. Eventually however, she did continue, "...as you know, you do not do your own laundry."

"Well, I certainly will from now on!" Malcolm replied aghast.

"...That does not help us now. As I was saying, it would be best if this rumour which has reached your father was found unlikely based on the evidence. So we must create evidence. Remove your clothes."

She reached out then, gripping his shoulder firmly. Malcolm did manage to pull free of her grip, and scramble out of the other side of the bed, albeit with quite a bit less dignity than was ideal.

"Now let's not be hasty..." he said, deliberately lowering the stress-heightened register of his voice. "Let's just think about this for a second."

Rosalind slowly paced towards his. "I am stronger than you."

"Yes, probably. But you are also panicking... all I'm saying is..."

Rosalind snarled. "Vulcans do not panic!"

"Well, Vulcans are a conquered and enslaved race. Maybe a little panicking would have done some good... er... not now, though. You need just need to calm...just _LISTEN_ to me okay? I'll sneak out and find something... a cucumber maybe? … and you can just go into the bathroom and privately...er..."

"Cucumbers do not ejaculate," Rosalind replied tensely then her face changed. "However, you do. In the shower. Perhaps if you were to furnish me with some semen, your ruse would work."

Malcolm balked. "Listen, I feel for you Rosalind, I do, but..."

"My name is not Rosalind!"

"Don't be stupid," Malcolm snapped back. "Of course it is. Isn't it?

Rosalind lowered her eyes. "I have a Vulcan name."

"Really? Huh. That's... interesting. So, you all have these secret Vulcan names? What's your real name? What about Lloyd? He doesn't have a real name does he? Lloyd's just... _Lloyd_."

"I do not know if all Vulcan mothers follow the practice of my mother and give their children a proper Vulcan name," Rosalind replied. "However, she believes that the practice is widespread. And I do not intend to tell you my true name."

"So you expect me to wank on command for you, and you won't even tell me your name? How does that work? I thought I was in charge here?"

Not-Rosalind raised her eyebrows again. "It is no great sacrifice, on your part, to do what you already do at least daily."

"How do you even _know_ that?"

"I listen to your heart rate while you are in the shower," she answered calmly.

"Well... _don't_!"

"Go find a cucumber."


	12. Florida 2137

**Florida Reclamation Zone 2137**

* * *

It had been inevitable.

 _Charles, if it is me..._

So goddamn inevitable.

It started with Elizabeth smiling.

Smiling at a boy.

Smiling at a boy while he played soccer with his friends.

Smiling at a barefoot boy playing soccer with his friends. Soccer in the mud. Mud flying and spraying with every kick. The ball bouncing erratically, if it bounced at all. Sometimes it would hit a puddle and splat instead. When this happened the boys would laugh. THE boy would laugh. And Elizabeth would laugh too. Leaning forward, her blonde hair shining in the sun.

 _Charles, if it is me..._

It continued with Elizabeth talking.

Talking to the boy.

Sharing all her thoughts, her secrets, the budding poetry of her heart.

The boy had dark, heavy lidded eyes. Proud brows.

His arms were tanned and lean and strong, and they would pick her up off her feet and spin her around.

 _Charles...make sure I get a box..._

Then somewhere, maybe in the back of a abandoned car, maybe on a picnic blanket in a dappled muddy glade, maybe up against the wall of a corrugated iron shed, somewhere, Elizabeth was passionate. Elizabeth was unwary. Elizabeth made a mistake.

 _Charles... I'm afraid..._

And then she was secretive, pale and nauseated.

And then she was dead.

 _...afraid of the gators..._

The shot came at two o'clock in the morning. Charles didn't think he'd been asleep. It took him nearly an hour before he could bring himself to walk into the next room. He'd hated himself every second of that goddamn hour.

 _...I think he'll want to just make me disappear..._

But an hour was how long it took him.

His father was still in the room. Or maybe he'd left briefly to get that six pack. Or maybe he'd brought it with him, when he'd walked into Elizabeth's room with the gun. The goddamn gun.

Charles had promised Elizabeth, so she didn't just disappear. He borrowed the money for the funeral. Borrowed it from the only sort of people who would lend someone like him money. And there was only one way he could earn the sort of money needed to pay it back.

 _Charles...make sure I get a box..._

It was such a lot of money. The funeral director was kind, in a practiced, professional way. Said that at least she'd not been shot in the head. No need for reconstruction. A saving.

She _HADN'T_ been shot in the head. Charles's father, slurring, sitting on the floor of his dead daughter's bedroom, had told Charles that he shot her where she had got herself into trouble.

 _...afraid of the gators..._

This was precisely the moment when Charles decided that he would kill him.


	13. Carlisle 2138

**Carlisle 2138**

* * *

With a certain meditative care, T'Pol placed a series of books into the moving crate. Her books! Probably the very strangest thing about life in these grand rooms, in this grand house, in this chilly northern city was that somewhere along the way she had begun to acquire possessions.

The boy, Malcolm, owned so much that anything she expressed a particular interest in was tacitly declared hers, and not missed by him at all. And, if he saw anything strange about his possession acquiring some small aliquot of his other possessions, he made no mention of it.

She had learned a lot from the books, crammed as they were, with Imperial propaganda. For beneath the jingo and the bluster there was knowledge. The speed of light, the secret chemistry of plants, the beauty of light as it bounced around a portrait, the sublime rendered in white paint.

And now it was ending- this _unexpectedly bearable_ life, was ending. Malcolm - and T'Pol with him- was being shipped across an ocean to the prestigious _Imperial Military Academy_ , a position which must have been bought with money, rather than any particular promise on the boy's part. From what T'Pol could see, the boy's principal talent was enduring things.

Her books packed, T'Pol turned to her clothes. The boy's mother was apparently under the impression that clothes lasted for only three or four months. At the end of this period, the mother's entire wardrobe was replaced at considerable expense and it was from the discards that the boy was accustomed to clothing T'Pol - occasionally remembering to have things altered to fit her, but usually not. T'Pol folded each such garment into an efficient package and stacked them carefully next to the books.

A knock startled her. It was likely Lloyd, and the thought pleased T'Pol as she moved to the door.

But it wasn't Lloyd.

T'Pol had scarcely clapped eyes on The Father in the years she had lived in Carlisle - he had existed in this suite of rooms only as the ogre of the boy's rantings- but there was no mistaking him. He stared at T'Pol in a way which made her acutely aware, and vaguely horrified, that she was wearing his wife's old clothes.

"Do you know how expensive you were?" he slurred. "No of course you don't. A creature like you could never understand that sort of money. You are _fit_ , though, aren't you? Wasted on that mewling pup of mine, that's for sure."

The world seemed to slow as he grabbed her. _You could kill him_ , she thought, _But then you would be killed. And first you would be made to suffer more than you are now. Do you want to live?_

She refused to let the thought go. She grabbed on to it, put it to work, spinning around and around in her mind. She refused to notice anything else that was happening to her.

 _Do you want to live?_

And then someone cleared their throat. Lloyd cleared his throat. "Excuse me, sir. I apologise for the interruption. But there has been an urgent communication from the base. An emergency has unfolded at the base. You are required."

"Now?" the father demanded. T'Pol allowed herself to see him for a moment. His forehead was bright red and beaded with sweat.

"Indeed, sir," Lloyd replied blandly, and with those words, and a flurry of sweat, flab and dishevelled clothing, the father was gone, and T'Pol was alone with Lloyd.

She did not seem to be able to move.

"It hurt," she whispered to no one. "The cucumber didn't hurt, but this..." she trailed off.

Lloyd responded by disappearing to the bathroom and returning with several towels. "Do you require medical assistance, Rosalind?"

"I...no," T'Pol began, and then pulled herself together, taking the towels and clutching them to her chest with one hand, smoothing what clothing was still on her person with the other. "Is there really an emergency at the base?"

Lloyd slightly inclined his head. "There will be, by the time he arrives."

T'Pol nodded slowly, her head spinning and a strange sound ringing in her ears. "Then I think, perhaps, that a different woman, one called T'Pol, might have cause to thank you, Lloyd."

A long pause followed before Lloyd answered. "And I think, Rosalind, that a different man, one called Soval, might wish he could accept your thanks without asking else of you. But he cannot."

T'Pol nodded again, wondering if the nod was smooth or if the bone feep trembling she couldn't help but fell was betraying her. "Go on."

"You might turn your mind, Rosalind, to the idea that men do not live forever. And when men meet their ends, timely or not, then their property becomes that of their sons. And a son is not his father. One wonders if a son might be prevailed upon to release his favourite, and perhaps another of her choosing, from his service and into the service of the Imperial military. For there, a favourite might find that the seeds of her vengeance, the seeds of rebellion, are even now being carefully sown."

At this, T'Pol nodded once more. "I shall meditate on your wisdom, Lloyd. For, indeed, all men shall someday die."


	14. Florida 2138

**Florida Reclamation Zone 2138**

* * *

Just twenty seconds ago, Charles thought, as he stood almost deafened by the sound of his own pounding heart.

Just twenty seconds ago my life was fine. Well not _fine_. But...fine.

But twenty seconds ago his father

ranting as always,

ranting about females,

about witches

 _Medea_

ranting and ranting...

Twenty seconds ago, his father had joked _gleefully_ about killing his own daughter

called her a ...

called _Elizabeth_ a ...

And, ten seconds ago, Charles had picked up the gun.

There would be no more ranting now.

"I killed him," Charles said aloud, almost to steady himself, because the world refused to stop. "I actually killed him."

All that planning, the scheming, the elaborate revenges, lovingly designed and redesigned as he drifted off to sleep each night...

All the accusations he had planned, all the confessions he had planned to extract...

...and, in the end, he'd just lost his temper.

More seconds were passing.

And Charles had to do something.

He had to start trying to save his own life.

Since childhood, Charles had grown used to surveying piles of garbage with a magpie's eye. He had, in the year since Elizabeth's death, accumulated some materials - stray bits of plastic sheeting, tape, a tattered tarpaulin, an old tent. He'd stowed it all in a rotting cardboard box, behind a pile of scrap metal. Stowed it for _someday_.

 _Someday_ had come.

He wrapped, he hauled, he cleaned.

He watched his mother's closed bedroom door.

It never opened.

Then, he got in his boat - got in with the plastic wrapped, tarpaulin wrapped, tent wrapped... thing - coaxed the engine to a marginally effective splutter, and guided the boat along the bayou, toward old Shem's glade.

Charles seemed to remember he'd once heard that 'gators did not particularly like the taste of human flesh. That, when disposing of a body this way, it was best to sweeten the deal with some ham, or with quail. But Charles didn't have any ham, or any quail. Or any money to buy ham, or buy quail. Or enough time to turn enough tricks to get the money for ham, or for _fucking quail_.

He would just have to hope that times were as tough for old Shem as they were for everyone else.

Charles offloaded it - _the body_ \- as close to the bank as he dared. He couldn't see Shem anywhere, but he reckoned that he could sense him, sense those ancient eyes upon him. Then, he backed the boat off a'ways and waited, waited as the light faded.

Mosquitos began to bite him, but he didn't care. Charles wondered whether he was going about this all wrong. Whether he should have fed himself to old Shem instead.

Eventually, there was movement in darkness, a quiet splash of water, and Charles reckoned that the deed was done.

Exhaustion had enveloped him - more thoroughly than the darkness, more mercilessly than the mosquitos - and he wanted nothing in the world except his own bed.

To his surprise though, the porch light was on. As he trudged closer he saw a figure. No, multiple figures, Imperial lictors. A squad of Imperial lictors standing around his mother.

She looked up and saw him. And then, slowly, she raised a finger in his direction and began to scream.


	15. Florida 2138 Part 2

**Imperial Airlines Flight 287 - from Bozeman, Montana to Jacksonville, Florida - 2138**

* * *

"Can I offer you some assistance, sir?"

The flight attendant was so delectable that Jonathan did not have the heart to tell her that both her colleagues had _already_ 'assisted' him.

He was more than up to the challenge, and you are only young once. He wondered if he could suck her cherry of a lower lip so hard that it would burst.

First-class was otherwise empty, so there was no need to cram into the restroom or kitchen facilities. He simply drew the curtain, bent her over his own armrest and got 'assistance' right there.

This one was gamer than her colleagues, offering little moans and coos the whole way through, no matter how rough he got. Nor did she balk when he grabbed a hold of the loose end of his seat belt and wrapped it round her neck.

As it happened, the little purr she gave when he pulled the belt tight finished him off, so she didn't take much punishment anyway.

"What's a man like you want in Florida anyway?" she asked as they cleaned themselves up with little rolled towels and flopped down into the first-class seats.

Jonathan smiled. "What's your name, cutie?"

"Cutler," she replied. "My name's really Elizabeth, but everybody calls me Cherry. Cherry Cutler."

Jonathan was delighted. "Cherry is _perfect_ for you! Well, Cherry, I'll tell you why I'm going to Florida. I'm going to Florida to spring a kid out of prison. My father - you know who my father is?- he reckons this kid is some sort of engineering _idiot-savant_ , and kid has got himself in some hot water. "

Cherry grabbed the last clean towel and rubbed it all over her exposed cleavage. Quite unnecessarily. "Ooh! What did he do?"

"Murdered his daddy."

Cherry giggled. "Naughty! Why are you helping someone so _naughty_?"

"I told you, cutie. My father thinks he's a genius, and my father collects geniuses the way that lesser men collect stamps. Now, on to more important matters. Cherry, why do you wear such white panties? They don't suit you at all!"

"Part of the uniform," Cherry sighed, pouting prettily.

Jonathan pulled her into his lap. "Well, it won't do, at all. I happen to think your cute little ass would look much better in shiny red, and I'd very much like to give it good spanking, to prove it to you."

Cherry dutifully arranged herself, and Jonathan spent the rest of the flight proving his case. Once they landed, he snapped a picture of Cherry's ass and teased her briefly about sending it to the airline's HR to prove his point about the panty colour.

She farewelled him with an adorable little salute and then he was off on the less pleasant part of his journey, at Florida's Imperial Correction Facility.

By the time the kid was thrown into the interrogation room, where Jonathan had been placed to wait, Jonathan was hungry, the good meal and good mood that Cherry & Friends had supplied to him long gone.

"Are you the priest?" The kid slurred though swollen lips. The lictors had gone to town on his face, and no doubt the rest of him.

"Do I look like a priest?" Jonathan chuckled mirthlessly. "Although, you are almost right. I, idiot, am your Guardian Angel."

The kid shuddered. "I murdered my father. Only cause he murdered my sister, but they don't give a shit about that. I murdered a _Paterfamilias_ , and there is no saving me now. I just wish they'd execute me already."

Jonathan sneered. " Yes, you murdered your father. And there's no excuse for murdering the head of your family. No excuse unless that _paterfamilias_ just so happens to be a _traitor to the Empire_. And wouldn't you know it, but evidence of your father's treachery to the Empire has _JUST_ come to light? So it turns out you aren't a murderer, after all. It turns out you are a patriot, a goddamn _hero_ , even. Now isn't that lucky?"

Comprehension slowly grew on the kids bloody features. "I see. And just what go you want with me?"

"My father," Jonathan corrected "My father would like you to invite you to come work for him, once this murder business is all straightened out. My father, Henry Archer."

"Who's that?"

Jonathan sniffed. "Not buying it. Even a backwater, rent-boy hick like you knows who Henry Archer is. Smile, kid! This is your _goddamn_ lucky day! Come build starships and suck the dicks that count, for once. Unless you'd rather, die of course."

The kid was silent for a long while, his brow furrowed.

"Well?" Jonathan prompted impatiently.

And then the kid looked at Jonathan for the first time. Looked at him with shocking blue eyes and a sudden dry smile. "Well," the kid said. "I'm thinking about it, aren't I?"


	16. San Francisco 2140

**Imperial Military Academy 2140**

* * *

Lloyd - _Soval_ \- had given her a purpose something to occupy her mind.

Something to distract her mind from dwelling on...less pleasant events.

The boy, perhaps unsurprisingly, had noticed nothing about the aftermath. Distracted by the sudden arrival of his own future, he'd paid no mind to the long stretches of silence or to the way that T'Pol, suddenly noticing them, would fill them with awkward chatter. Nor had he noticed her physical discomfort, perhaps attributing it to a fear of flying. It had, after all, been her first trip ever in an actual passenger compartment.

Or perhaps he'd attributed it to the radical alteration in her wardrobe. Far from the cast-off, ill-fitting clothes of a middle-aged socialite, to which she had become accustomed, she was now dressed so as to barely conceal her nakedness, and to heavily suggest it.

Her role had changed, or rather a new role had been added. Now she was intended to be _SEEN_.

But the inside of her mind could not be seen. And she set it squarely upon Soval's words, repeating them over and over, dwelling on the most delicious of them, the most forbidden, rebellion.

But there was a problem. Soval's plan depended upon the boy releasing her and Soval to the Imperial forces when his father died.

Which meant that the boy had to be alive to do it.

Unfortunately, in the shark-tank that was the Imperial Military Academy, the boy seemed determined to embody chum.

"You need to make friends," T'Pol had urged the boy gently, after a training "mishap" that had nearly cost him an eye.

"I'm not good at friends," the boy had replied moodily.

T'Pol had turned her mind to the problem. "Jonathan Archer. He's insecure to be so much older than everyone else, but he's well connected enough to offer you some protection. What's more, he's easy. He loves talking about himself and loves being agreed with and praised, and absorbs anyone willing to do so into his entourage."

"Fine, fine. Consider me Jonathan Archer's new personal toady."

And at this, the boy had done well.

But, she'd realised as his third year began, and the 'accidents' had not yet stopped, it wasn't going to be enough.

To really keep him safe, she had to make him into an object of fear.

And humans feared the strong and the mad.

And, T'Pol reminded herself, as she discretely dissolved more of the mild hallucinogen into the soup, the boy did not have the raw materials to appear strong.

"Have some soup before we go," T'Pol said placing the bowl on the table.

"Oh, thanks," the boy replied distractedly, picking at his hair. "You really make the most terrific soup. I don't think I've ever eaten anything quite so satisfying. You should have some too."

"It is made with chicken broth," T'Pol replied smoothly.

The boy squinted. "Is chicken broth made from chickens? I guess one is supposed to think so, what with it being called chicken broth. But I rather have my suspicions, and you can't trust advertising. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen an actual chicken. Do you think it is possible that there are no more chickens and that we are actually eating something else? Cats, maybe. Or some sort of lab grown slime? I mean how would we even know?"

"It is alright," T'Pol replied calmly. "I have seen chickens. Before I came to work for you."

"Oh. Oh, well that's good isn't it? One less thing to worry about. Chickens are still chickens then. You look nice, by the way."

"Thank you."

"Bit wasted on this evening, I'm afraid. It's going to be tedious. We're just going to Jonathan's and it's not much of an occasion. Just a welcome dinner for one of the new cadets. Some kid who his father rescued from some godforsaken existence, and gave an engineering apprenticeship to."

T'Pol considered. "Henry Archer is in the habit of surrounding his son with talented people in his debt. This cadet might be worth knowing."

"Don't worry, ' _mother'_ , I'll be polite. I'm just saying it wasn't worth getting dressed up."

"We have appearances to maintain," T'Pol replied firmly. "Always."

And at the reception she did just that. Leaving Malcolm to listen to - and laugh along with - a story of Jonathan's which they had both heard many times before, she drifted around Jonathan Archers suite of rooms, attempting to look expensive.

Then she awarded herself a break, a few minutes of solitude, unobserved in a corridor, peering out a rain-streaked window into the moonlight.

But then it happened. It was only for a moment, but when she heard someone moving behind her in the dark, for that moment she was back in Carlisle, with Stuart Reed's twisting her arm behind her back, and without thinking she struck first.

She had the figure pinned against a wall with her forearm jamming firmly against his adam's apple, before she realised that she was actually safe - relatively speaking- in San Francisco. Or she _had_ been safe, until she'd unthinkingly attacked a cadet, and cost herself her life.

T'Pol slowly raised her eyes to the figure's face, to see exactly who had sealed her fate.

It was the guest of honour, no less. The new cadet. Henry Archer's foundling protégé.

He smiled at her winningly. "Sorry, ma'am. Must'a startled you there."

And somehow, suddenly, his eyes were the bluest thing T'Pol had ever seen.


	17. San Francisco 2140 Part II

**Imperial Military Academy 2140**

* * *

When he saw her, he heard his father voice whisper.

 _Medea._

He knew what that meant now. Who that was.

It hadn't been the _first_ thing that he'd looked up, when transplanted from swamp to Henry Archer's comfortable Bozeman Chalet, complete with Imperial Database Access and a formidable, standalone library. For one thing, his somewhat shaky literacy skills would not have been up to the task.

But there had been a whole library to devour, and devour it he had- particularly when he'd come to realise _that_ had been what he'd been brought to Bozeman _for_.

It had not been made obvious to him, upon his arrival, just what was expected from him in exchange for his life being saved. Jonathan had not offered any clues on the flight up from Florida, and when Charles had presented himself to Henry, the man simply stared at him and instructed him to "get on with it".

Henry's composure had lasted to within seconds of Charles beginning to fellate him before he'd begun roaring with laughter. "You think a lot of yourself, young man," Henry managed between chortles. "Do you really imagine a man like me needs to go to the trouble of springing whores from death row?"

Charles hadn't been able to answer, as all other reasons for him to be there in Bozeman seemed equally inconceivable. And the truth, that he'd been plucked from nothing for a career- handpicked to nurse Henry Archer's fantastical engine through the stars - seemed more impossible that anything.

And yet, no other shoe had fallen.

He'd been gawked at, yes, by the moneyed inhabitants of Henry's circles, snarled at yes, by Henry's jealous underlings, and Jonathan did not share Henry's squeamishness about demanding a quick fuck from a dependent foundling when aroused during the small hours of the night.

And yet, here Charles stood, at the Imperial Military Academy. He should be mouldering in a murderers' grave by now, and yet here he stood - in a fresh, tailored uniform, with a beautiful, silk-draped woman - here in the moonlight.

True, she was a Vulcan. She belonged to one of Jonathan's friends. The twitchy one, Charles believed, the one who licked his lips too often, and spoke with the staccato of automatic weaponry.

Yes she was Vulcan and a slave.

But she was beautiful.

A mass of contradictions.

Proud, but enslaved.

Dressed in silk and gems, but unable to own as much as a match.

Delicate and fine boned, and yet superhumanly strong.

Degraded and desired.

And. very possibly, about to kill him.

She didn't though. Her arm lowered and his throat was freed.

"Sorry, ma'am. Must'a startled you there."

She looked at him.

"You're beautiful," he added. Which was a stupid thing to say. And true.

She considered him and he let her, neither backing down nor closing himself off from her gaze.

"If you report my actions to the Academy authorities, I will likely be executed," she said calmly. "It may not be preventable."

Charles frowned. "Yeah, but I won't though. It was an accident." When her expression didn't change, he added. "I'm not like them, those people in there. I wouldn't get you in trouble."

"I must make certain," she replied softly.

"So you're going to kill me?" Charles replied, neither feeling nor sounding as frightened as he should by the prospect.

"Unnecessary," she replied, before compelling him with a not-inconsiderable amount of force into an out of the way linen closet, her intention obvious.

Distaste mixed uncomfortably with Charles's desire. " _THIS_ is unnecessary. I'm not going to tell on you."

She sighed, almost sadly. "I believe you, but I need to be sure. There is more than my fate at stake here."

Charles resistance wore thin in the face of the purest desire of his life. "But if I were going to tell, how can you be so sure this would change my mind anyway..."

First one of her hands, then the other, brushed his temples, and his thoughts and vision began to swirl and glow.

"You cannot expect to understand everything," she said. "My mind to your mind."


	18. San Francisco 2142

**Imperial Military Academy - San Francisco 2142**

* * *

The first time had been a necessity. Or had _felt_ like a necessity. But they were long past that now. They were the thirst and the quenching. They were the hunger and the satiation. They were agony and the sweet release.

At first T'Pol had resisted the pleasure; it had been his mind that was her playground, even as her body was his. But eventually the engineer in him had taken her apart - figured out what to tinker with to make her sigh, what to connect to make her moan, what to hot-wire to make her scream out in...

...in a feeling she had no right to. She had a job to do.

The letter. The time had come.

"His father is dead," she said, pulling one of Tucker's arms tighter around her.

He frowned. "Who's? Reed's? Well... shit. How'd he react to that? You never know with him, do you?"

T'Pol squirmed slightly. "I...don't know. He doesn't know yet. I was able to intercept the official notification. I had advanced warning."

"Bump the old man off, did you?" Charles joked lightly.

T'Pol bit back a snarl. "No, I did not. But I had advanced warning from the household. Perhaps someone there thought it would be best if I broke the news. And I will do so. Tomorrow."

"Well, sure! Why rush?" Charles answered lazily, stretching out under the sheet. "I'd certainly rather deal with Reed first thing, after a strong cup of coffee or two. Where does he think you are right now, anyway?"

T'Pol sighed. "He thinks I am here."

Charles sat bolt upright, dropping T'Pol onto the mattress. "He knows about us?"

The boy _did_ know _._ Sometime in the second or third month, Charles had left an incautious mark on her neck. Alarmed, the boy had demanded an explanation and T'Pol had named the culprit.

"Well," he'd said, lightly. "I suppose you can take care of yourself."

T'Pol had bristled at this. "That is a renegation of your responsibilities. While you imprison me and curtail my freedoms you have a duty to ensure my safety."

"Well, I suppose," the boy had answered uncertainly. "I suppose I can do something. Henry Archer protects Tucker, but while Archer is powerful, he's not a god. Then again, I've no idea how Jonathan would react to that, although he's no friend of Tucker's..."

"Your intervention is not necessary. I was merely making a point. As it happens, Tucker's advances are not unwelcome."

The boy had not seemed pleased by this exactly, indeed, he seemed almost hurt. T'Pol hadn't been able to fathom why that might be, she was in no position to refuse him anything he actually want from her. Regardless, he had offered no serious objection. Indeed, he contributed to rely on her. Often, the... _substances_ with which she laced his food would wear off in the middle of the night, and as the boy shook uncontrollably T'Pol would rub his back and the boy would whisper, so softly he might think she couldn't hear, " _You're the only one. The only one I can trust."_

And so, T'Pol could answer Charles honestly now. "Of course he knows about us."

"And he doesn't mind... _sharing_ you?"

T'Pol sat up too, then, pulling the sheet up over her breasts in irritated modesty. " I am my own person, whatever your corrupt Terran laws say. And, for what it's worth, he's never... _used_ me."

Charles blinked "Really? Why not?"

She could only answer truthfully. "I don't know."

"Not once? _NEVER_?"

"Indeed."

Charles shook his head. "Well, goddamn. You're the pleasure slave but I've taken more dicks than you have."

T'Pol suddenly wanted very badly to leave, but she restrained herself, tolerating the suddenly unbearable skin contact until she could speak again. "That is behind you know. You must hope that the Imperial Forces allows you to build yourself a career that you find tolerable. As, indeed, will I."

"You? What do you mean?"

"I... I have long had the intention of asking Malcolm to release my contract to the Imperial Forces. With his father deceased he now has the power to do so."

Charles eyed her sceptically. "Well yeah... but _WOULD_ he though?"

"I believe he will," T'Pol replied calmly. "If for no other reason than he will not be able to articulate a reason why he shouldn't." At times- many times- she had massages the boys temples and whispered his guilt, and his obligation to her, directly into his mind.

Charles remained unconvinced. "Then he must be a very different man in private then the one I've seen."

T'Pol shrugged. "Aren't we all different in private?"

Charles nodded, as if forced to admit that was true. "Well, then. Maybe I'll see you out there someday."

"Maybe you will."


	19. Kyoto 2145

**Kyoto 2145**

* * *

"So, I've been meaning to ask you something. Do you remember the first time we met?"

The doctor frowned. "Indeed I do, Ms Sato. For a master race, you humans are not particularly adept in the area of memory. Your memories are self-serving things. They recall only what benefits you and each time you recall them, you edit them, for your own benefit, yet again. Those you enslave remember things more carefully. We are obliged to."

Hoshi listened carefully to all of this - she listened carefully to everything - but outwardly chose to ignore most of it. "So you remember that I came to you with broken fingers. I remember you set them, healed the bones, but also that they hurt for days afterwards, weeks even. I didn't think anything of it, at the time. But I've just had a letter from a cousin of mine. She was injured in an insurgent bombing. Lost one leg and shattered the other. Now the thing is, that she said that after it was set, her broken leg hurt barely at all. And I was wondering how that could be, given that MY fingers hurt for days?"

"You are still very young, Ms Sato," the doctor replied calmly. "For all your architecturally styled eyebrows and your exactingly toned abdominal muscles, you do not yet quite understand the world in which you live. See, this school administers pain as a teaching aid. Now, it is supposed that poorly set bones would lessen your future career possibilities, dexterous fingers having a variety of uses in your future profession. So the school wishes your bones set. Now, the PAIN however, the pain and the lessons it teaches you, _IS_ presumed to be of future use to you. I earned my position at this school because I pioneered a technique to _heal_ fractures while not diminishing the periosteal pain curve experienced as a _result_ of those fractures. I've since enhanced it to increase the pain experienced over a normal fracture. Quite ingenious if I do say so myself."

"Oh, ingenious, I'm sure," Hoshi laughed. "Torturing school girls is what gets you stiff, is it? Hardly the most original fetish."

But the doctor shook his head. "Oh no, my dear. The schoolgirls are irrelevant. The pain is the thing. My life's passion has been teasing out the differences between pain and harm, and what that could mean in a universe such as this. The ultimate prize is a machine that can inflict extreme agonies and yet cause no physical harm at all. Harming the mind but not the body. The ultimate exercise in dualism. And I've made much progress, given my sadly inadequate facilities."

It was as if all the gods and goddesses were smiling down on Hoshi at this moment. It was just what she needed. "It occurs to me, Doctor, that I might be in a position to benefit you enormously. As you will be aware, I am looking for a patron, and the best one currently in the market is a military man. An Admiral Maxwell Forrest. I'll be attending a function in two days' time with the hope of securing this contract. Now, one might think that the military would be _even more willing_ than a boarding school to invest in torture research. So, _if_ I were to bring your research to the attention of Admiral Forrest..."

"Out of the goodness of your heart?"

Hoshi laughed. "Well, let's just say, that my ability to influence Admiral Forrest will depend upon my selection as his consort. Unfortunately, Hinata - you know Hinata?- is also in the running. If, however, Hinata were to suddenly come down with say, a flesh-eating bacteria before tomorrow evening, then I have no doubt I will find myself in a position to get you transferred to the Imperial Forces, and a lab befitting your talent. So I suppose we shall just have to both hope that something horrible befalls Hinata, won't we?"

The doctor smiled. "And so the world turns, Ms Sato."


	20. Savannah 2145

**The Zephram Cochrane Memorial Banquet**

 **Savannah 2145**

* * *

Hoshi was true to her word. Once had she consoled Max Forrest about Hinata's _horrible_ illness - and enchanted him with her dreams of starting her own consort academy in Brazil, one which would do things the _right_ way- she wove a tale about the enslaved alien genius working away in a school basement on the most revolutionary torture device the Empire had ever known. And Forrest was duly intrigued.

"How clever you are, Hoshi!" he said, stroking her under her chin. "Thank you for bring this potential asset to my attention. Although, you may come to regret it, after you take your place as my woman in the fleet. What if I ever have cause to punish you?"

Hoshi purred. "I assure you, Max, that I am more than up to the challenge. I got the best pain tolerance grade in my year!"

"Good to know, good to know."

Hoshi sat by Forrest for the rest of the evening. Just _what_ her hand was up to in his lap was safely concealed from all by the table top. Mostly, his various clients bored her, but about half-way through the party, a young man sidled up to Forrest, almost sideways, and with a poorly-concealed look of dislike in his eyes. Finally, the promise of something _interesting_.

"Charles Tucker, as I live and breathe!" Forrest said, jovially. "Pull up a chair! You've certainly come up in the world since you last slid out of my bed."

Tucker's lips narrowed slightly. "And I understand I have you to thank for that, sir. For bringing a portion of my skill set to the attention of Henry Archer."

"Indeed you do. Pleased it worked out for you, son. Those mosquito catchers are damn useful little machines. Damn useful. Although..." and here Forrest took a sip of his cocktail before continuing. "...I did want to mention something to you. Word has reached me that you've been carrying on with a certain Vulcan. Now, no one is going to look down on you for flipping the odd _green-creamer_ on your mattress - the gods know, I partake myself - but this _particular_ Vulcan... Look, I was in the service the same time as Stuart Reed, and if I ever met a more tiresome asshole, I don't remember it. And the boy, well, he's twitchier than a vestal virgin in a whorehouse. It won't be good for your career to carry on with Malcolm Reed's sloppy seconds, so..."

"He never touched her!" Tucker spat, loud enough to make Hoshi jump. "She was just for show. Just a cover..."

Forrest leaned forward, a glint in his eye. "You don't say! Now that is sad to hear. Stuart Reed may be a tiresome asshole, but a deviant son is more than I would wish on anyone."

"But what does it matter, Max?" Hoshi interrupted, both bored and annoyed by a conversation she wasn't able to contribute to, about people she didn't know. "You just said that you took Tucker on the regular, a few years back."

Max stroked her hair indulgently. "Oh, my sweet summer-whore! You just don't understand the world of men. Let me explain. Real men aren't taken, real men _take_. Tucker here has been taken, its true. But he did it out of necessity. Out of _desperation_. For _family_. There's a sort of honour in that. However, now he's come up in the world, I'm sure Tucker would try to snap the neck of any man who came sniffing. Me included."

"Damn right I would," Tucker growled.

"Good lad! Now, Malcolm Reed, on the other hand, has wanted for nothing his entire life. And he owned this Vulcan for years - and honestly, you should see her; I bet she could even make YOU wet. So he has this hottie in his room for years, and _NEVER_ indulges? Only one reason for that, and we'd best see it corrected."

Hoshi shifted. "Corrected how?"

Forrest smiled. "When I was a boy, I stole one of my daddy's beers. When he found out, he was so mad that he held me down and poured the rest of the six pack straight down my throat. After I came to in the hospital, well, I never stole one of his beers again, and damn near didn't touch a beer 'til well into my twenties."

Hoshi watched Tuckers face shift uncomfortably during this speech. This evening had been far more educational than she had hoped.

Forrest droned on for a while longer about his early adventures with alcohol, until suddenly he pulled up short, nodding in the direction of yet another young man storming towards them.

"Heads up, here's trouble," Forrest muttered, just as Tucker muttered "Jonathan?"

Whoever 'Jonathan' was, he marked straight up to Forrest and slammed him into the wall by the lapels. "I'll kill you!"

"Calm yourself, lad," Forrest said firmly, while waving off the four anonymous men who had suddenly appeared around them. "Pull yourself together. It was time. We ALL knew. We've all known for years."

"It wasn't time!," Jonathan shouted back. "He had years left. _Years_."

Forrest sneered. "Mewling years. Puking years. Years sitting in his own shit. Trust me, no man wants that. He would have been grateful."

"You had no right!" Jonathan shouted in response. "No right. I'll make you pay. I will."

Hoshi flicked her eyes to Tucker and saw him breath the question "Henry Archer's dead?", almost to himself.

Henry _Archer_? Even she had heard of him.

"Go home, son," Forrest drawled pushing Jonathan's hands off his jacket with the air of one picking at lint balls. "Go home. Get a good night's sleep. Maybe take a vacation. Come back when you realise this was all for the best. I doubt it will take you long."

And, Jonathan _DID_ leave, if only - Hoshi suspected - to be gone before a room full of Imperial movers and shakers saw his tears.

Tucker stared after him, paused as if to stand, indecision on his face.

"Charles, stay and have a drink," Forrest directed firmly.

And _that_ answered _that_.


	21. San Francisco 2145

**San Francisco 2145**

* * *

Jonathan was furious- red-faced and shouting vengeful obscenities - all of which were things Malcolm associated primarily with his late, unlamented father, and therefore with danger. He was profoundly uncomfortable.

"Well, you'll be well placed to," Malcolm replied awkwardly, after Jonathan laid out a particularly graphic revenge fantasy directed at Maxwell Forrest. "You'll be at Forrest's right-hand virtually your whole career. Your father made sure of that, before he...went. If I might suggest though, maybe wait until Enterprise is built? Once your ensconced there as captain, you can get revenge on Forrest AND still have command of your father's ship. Just like he would have wanted, right?"

This speech settled Jonathan enough to pour a pair of drinks and press one into Malcolm's hand. "You know, Reed? You're right. My father put an awful lot of effort into making sure I'd be surrounded by the right people, and that the right people would be indebted to me and this and that. But, you - well, as you know he _HATED_ you - and yet you might be the one person who is loyal to _ME_."

Malcolm smiled uneasily, strategically positioning his gaze on the temple adjacent to Jonathan's dominant eye. Eye contact was challenging at the best of times and Malcolm couldn't manage it just now. "Yes...I've never done well with fathers. But, you're my friend, and you've stayed my friend even though your father dislikes me, and so yes, I would say that I'm loyal to you."

Jonathan nodded, already half a generous glass deep into his bourbon. "Exactly. And you know the best part? You aren't my type, _AT ALL_ , and so there's no chance I'll screw things up by fucking you!"

"Isn't that lucky?" Malcolm replied carefully. He wanted badly to get out of this room, which was too hot, moving slightly, mildly infested with imaginary insects and filled with a drunk, recently bereaved, perpetually changeable tosser, on whom Malcolm's future somehow rather depended. "So, Jonathan, if you're all right, I should probably be going. I've got dawn drills to run tomorrow and..."

"Yes, yes, go..." Jonathan waved him off amicably. "I'm off to bed, after a few more of these. And I think, maybe, I'll get a puppy tomorrow."

"Not just for Christmas, right?" Malcolm replied with false levity.

"Nah. For mauling," Jonathan replied, apparently seriously, and so Malcolm left quickly.

The night air was a relief. It never got properly chilly here in San Francisco, even this late in the year. Somewhere, a dog barked, as Malcolm crossed the empty, moonlit square, past the statue of the emperor and toward the shadowed, landscaped pathway.

Quite a bit too late, he sensed something.

"Hayes, isn't it?" he said to the figure which stepped out of the shadows. He tried for an amiable tone, even though the extent to which he'd been startled must have been obvious.

Some ancient, reptilian part of Malcolm's brain shifted his weight onto his back foot, but there was no escape there. He saw more figures behind him out of the corner of his eye.

"Six," Hayes said flatly, reading his mind. "There are six of us. Had a pleasant evening, have you? Did you manage to cheer Archer up?"

"Not really," Malcolm replied, too flustered for anything beyond the truth. His mind couldn't quite catch up to this.

Hayes smirked. "Well, never mind, darling. You'll do better next time."

Malcolm took a step backwards. "You've got the wrong idea."

"Well now, I don't think so. According to that Vulcan piece of ass, you never took a run at her, all those years you owned her. She had to crawl into some hillbilly's bed to get some satisfaction. Meanwhile, you end up followings Archer around. Apparently, old Johnny-boy never got the memo about not sticking his dick in _CRAZY_. And, now you tell me that you can't satisfy HIM either. _Sad_. But don't worry. Admiral Forrest sent us to help you out. Give you some _practice_."

It was time to do something. _Anything_. But there was nothing to do. Only useless images flashed through his mind. Hollyhocks. Pigeons flocking in Trafalgar Square.

"There are six of us, Reed," Hayes repeated softly, taking just one step forward. "The only thing left for you to do, is to decide how badly hurt you want to be at the end of it."

Malcolm fought then. More effectively than he expected and harder than he'd known he could. Harder than was probably wise; because in the end it didn't matter.


	22. San Francisco 2145 Part II

**San Francisco 2144**

* * *

Hoshi took care to pose herself into the ideal _figura serpentinata_ , and tilt her head to her better side before Jonathan opened his door.

When he did he was bleary-eyed and most of the way to drunk. His resistance should be low.

 _Perfect._

"Nice neighbourhood you've got here," she sneered. "You won't believe what I saw happening to some guy across the square."

Jonathan tilted his head. "Whatever it was, I bet you've seen worse in your travels. And whatever the worst you've seen _actually_ is, well, I assure you, I'd believe it."

Hoshi smiled. "So my ingénue act isn't fooling you, huh? So what do you fall for? Earth goddess? Siren? Leather clad vixen? What's your poison?"

He didn't quite answer her. "What are you doing here?"

Hoshi didn't think she'd been particularly subtle, but in case Jonathan was even stupider than he looked, she gracefully shimmied out of her evening dress and stood there in the corridor wearing nothing but heels, stockings, garters and a smile. And the smile was very revealing.

"Aren't you with Forrest?" he demanded of her tits.

She reached out, and lifted his chin so he was looking her in the eyes. "A girl can hedge her bets, can't she?"

She pushed him into his apartment. He stumbled and fell backwards almost immediately, but that was fine, she could work with that. She extracted him from his not-particularly-clean-smelling sweatpants and considered what she had to work with, inwardly bored for all her outward shows of surprise and delight. She only wished he was sober enough to get him into the shower. She resolved to breathe through her mouth, and excuse herself from administering a blow job.

She coaxed him to life, glad - given his drunkenness - for the assistance of the vasoactive substance dissolved in her perfume. Finally he was firm enough, and on she climbed, sighing and moaning, and generally giving the type of hammy performance she normally wouldn't dare try on a man over thirty.

She flopped down onto the lush carpet beside him when she was done. "That was amazing!", she exclaimed - _shouted_ actually, because his eyelids were already drooping. "A revelation! Gods, but I LOATHE fucking old goats when there are virile stallions like you around."

"You're beautiful," he murmured. "So sexy."

And then he was snoring.

Hoshi helped herself to a shower. A _LONG_ one.


	23. San Francisco 2145 - Part III

**San Francisco 2145**

* * *

T'Pol was unsure why- was disturbed to her very core by the impulse - but from the moment the ugly rumour reached her, her every step had brought her to this doorstep. She could say nothing at all about the emotion which compelled her here, except that it was large; it was large enough that she found herself knocking on the door of one of her former cages.

He -the boy - answered the door unnaturally quickly, and T'Pol saw that it was true.

If she had been less familiar with him, if she had not spent years in his immediate proximity, she might not have recognised him at all. The disfiguring swelling aside, everything was wrong - his posture, his eye-line, he even smelled wrong, somehow. Her mind's eye had something to say about this - it didn't show her the first time she saw him, the slave masters office, but the second, the time he had almost dropped a book in surprise at the sight of her in his room. That unnameable emotion thundered within her; the boy would never look young again.

He didn't invite her in, but he did step back as she stepped forward, and she was propelled into the familiar space, the walls smothering her as if she had never left them.

"You are clearly in pain. You require medical attention," she said, taking care to reveal nothing with her voice beyond the bare syllables.

He barked - a laugh, T'Pol supposed, and did not otherwise reply. He didn't really have to, just seeing a doctor in this situation, in this place, was far easier said than done.

"I can help, I think," T'Pol continued. "I've encountered a Denobulan doctor. He is competent, and cares little for politics, so his services and discretion can be bought just with money. And you do still have that."

"I doubt discretion matters terribly at this point."

He wasn't wrong about that, and T'Pol lowered her eyes ever so slightly.

"And," he continued flatly, "What would you know about discretion, anyway? I was told that you told anyone who would listen that I was some foppish, limp-wristed cream-puff, too anaemic to know what to do with you."

T'Pol shifted, that nameless emotion growling away inside her. "I didn't tell anyone..."

"Oh?"

"...except... Tucker. I wanted him to find me attractive, to think well of me. It wasn't really about you at all."

He sneered at her, looked straight at her, unblinkingly. "Ahh. I see. All those years, I took care of you. Never harmed you. And yet you betrayed me, anyway, because Tucker made your panties wet."

The nameless emotion burst forward and named itself rage. "How can you say you never harmed me?" she all but screamed. "You enslaved me! You locked me away in your room for years. I lived for years with the knowledge that any second you could decide to do whatever you pleased to me, maim me, rape me, blind me or kill me as casually as you might break and throw away a toy."

"What the fuck are you even talking about?" he roared back. "You had no cause to fear me. I never touched you! _Never_. Whatever I might have wanted."

"No YOU didn't..." she stopped. Too late.

"What?"

And she told him; told him what his father had done to her in his childhood bedroom.

All those years she had thought that, if she had ever told him, he would be mortified, apologetic, perhaps enraged on her behalf. She'd imagined it more than once, even childishly fantasised about him seeking revenge on her behalf. Of course nothing like that happened now. He barely reacted at all. Except to one small detail.

"And you say Lloyd...excuse me, SOVAL, is it?... was there to save you, _not quite_ in time. That's interesting, isn't it? JUST in time to earn your gratitude and get you to wangle his freedom from me as well as yours. I wonder what _SOVAL_ whispered in my father's ear right before he decided - after years of leaving you alone - that he just _HAD_ to have a taste?"

"You're wrong!" T'Pol hissed, even as her mind reeled.

"Perhaps I am," he replied lightly. "Tell me your name."

She did.

He sneered again - maybe it was the closest his devastated face could manage to a smile. "Well, _T'Pol,_ ifyou are still here in one minute's time, then one of us won't leave this room alive. And I wouldn't count on it being me."

"The Denobulan's name is Phlox," she said.

And then she left.


	24. San Francisco 2145 Part IV

**Offices of Admiral Black - San Francisco 2145**

* * *

T'Pol was waiting for quite a while outside Admiral Black's offices, before Soval was able to see her. Despite looking exactly like every other Admiral's office, there was something disconcerting about the place. The people that came and went seemed to scurry more than was normal, and they all considered her either not at all, or rather too much. This did nothing to improve her state of mind, and she found herself visibly shaken when finally seated opposite Soval - large and busy desk between them.

"You have made yourself indispensable to Admiral Black, I see," she began.

Observing her state, Soval immediately rose and busied himself at a side table for a few minutes, returning with a hot mug of liquid which he handed to T'Pol. "This is tea from our homeland, T'Pol. From Vulcan."

"It is pleasing," T'Pol answered stiffly after several long sips, although in truth the tea's provenance pleaded her more than its flavour.

"Now what can I do for you, T'Pol."

She lowered the tea to her lap, not wishing to leave a ring on Soval's desk, and cleared her throat. "I need to know if it was you."

Soval regarded her carefully. "If _what_ was I?"

"Well... the boy, for starters, Malcolm. He was..."

"I know," Soval replied calmly. "And no. That order came from Admiral Forrest's office, not from here. Admiral Black and Stuart Reed were allies, and I serve the will of Admiral Black to the best of my abilities."

T'Pol frowned "But, you _killed_ Stuart Reed, didn't you?"

"Well, if I did, that was before I served the admiral. Indeed, it was only _because_ of Stuart Reed's death that I find myself able to serve Admiral Black to the best of my abilities."

T'Pol straightened her back " _And_ because _I_ arranged your freedom. Because you saved me once and earned my favour. Now I would like to know, did you arrange for the danger from which you saved me, in order to find yourself able to serve Admiral Black?"

Soval regarded her. "What put such a question in your mind T'Pol?"

"That is unimportant. The answer is important."

Soval nodded slowly. "Perhaps I should have asked _who_ put such a question in your mind."

T'Pol inhaled shakily. "Answer me!" she demanded - pleaded- one last time.

"I will not. The answer would do you no good, in any case. You would be devastated by an affirmation, and would not believe a denial. You always underestimated him. You must learn from this, learn to live with the uncertainty. For this is an uncertain world."

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then T'Pol spoke again. "I have done harm in order for us to reach the Imperial Forces. I must now mitigate that harm. Give me more to do. How might I best help the rebellion?"

"I don't know. I know little of the rebellion, and nothing of how you might assist it."

T'Pol's heart clenched in shock. "But you told me that you were in the rebellion!"

Soval shook his head slowly. "I did not. I told you that there _was_ a rebellion. And there is. But I do not intend to join it, T'Pol, and I hope you will not either, now you have a few more years of wisdom, and your freedom, and some distance from your trauma. Violence is not the way of our people, T'Pol. I plan to serve with distinction and honour, and, with time, change the minds of the humans _peaceably_. We can afford to be patient, T'Pol, for we live long lives. Unless that is, we are executed for pointless rebellion."

T'Pol slumped in her chair, so violently that her still-hot tea splashed and burned her thighs. She made no move to acknowledge the pain. It felt fitting. "So what should I do?"

Soval considered. "If I were you, I would work very hard and also earn the favour of Admiral Forrest. Get yourself assigned to the upcoming _Enterprise_ in a few years. Forrest will tolerate Vulcans if they are attractive, and attractive you are. You should be permitted to do well there. Serve with honour."

"Forrest?" T'Pol frowned. "Isn't _Enterprise_ supposed to be Archer's ship? And how would I get Forrest's favour, anyway?"

" _Enterprise_ will be Archer's," Soval replied firmly. "The admiralty are decided on that. And you would earn Forrest's favour by servicing him sexually. For specific details on how to do that, you have access to better sources than I. Or so I hear."

Suddenly, T'Pol was exhausted. A profound exhaustion of the soul she had not felt since the day she was separated forever from her mother. "If I am just to make myself a whore to Forrest, then what was any of this _for_?"

Soval regarded her with what might have been sympathy. "I'm afraid I cannot answer that for you. Now.. if there is anything I _can_ do..."

"Tucker," T'Pol replied immediately. "I want Tucker assigned to _Enterprise_ too. Can you do that?"

Soval frowned. "I believe that can be arranged. May I ask why, however?"

T'Pol sighed. "He is useful to me. And I trust him."

"That is to your peril," Soval responded, displeased. "But... as you wish."


	25. San Francisco 2145 Part V

**Imperial Military Academy Clinic Morgue**

 **San Francisco 2145**

* * *

"Come in, Mr Reed. Sit down. Or...", and here the Denobulan smiled broadly. "... perhaps you would prefer to stand."

The smile was very broad. _Too broad._

Malcolm wondered if he was some sort of demon. Probably. Regardless, pressed on. "I'm here...I'm here because..."

The demon - Phlox- held up a silencing finger. "Oh no need. I know. EVERYBODY knows. Everybody knowing is half the point, I believe."

 _Words._

 _Demon._

 _Demon words._

 _Only breath._

 _Ignore them._

 _Ignore them or die._

Malcolm tried again. "I need... I need help."

"Plainly you need help," the demon interrupted again. "You are badly injured, and, I possibly becoming ill from your injuries. Peritonitis, if you are very unlucky, which won't survive without help. I'm surprised you are still on your feet, actually - don't get me wrong, I understand why you are incentivised to stand- but I'm still surprised that you are managing it. Perhaps there is more grit to you than there seems to be. I should like to try out some of my inventions on you. Find out."

 _Demon words._

 _Mephistopheles._

 _Mephist-PHLOX-eles._

 _Mephist..._

 _There were all these eyes on the walls. Watching him out of little formaldehyde jars. And one kidney watching him. And whatever that green thing was._

 _CONCENTRATE!_

One last try. Malcolm took a breath. "I need help. You have help. I have money. You need money."

The demon smiled again. Too wide, again. _Mawed_. "Very well put. Quite the mind you have there, Mr Reed! And, for appropriate compensation, I am at your service. The question is, however, do you want a band-aid, or do you want a real solution?"

Malcolm's head spun. He couldn't figure out how all those eyelid-less eyes, in the little jars, were managing to blink.

It shouldn't be possible.

Things were very strange in hell.

"It will take quite a bit more than a band-aid, I think," he managed.

The demon sniffed mirthlessly. "You misunderstand me, Mr Reed. What I mean is, that while, yes, I can patch you up, these sort of incidents are going to keep befalling you, unless more radical changes are made."

"I don't understand..."

"The body and the mind are only machines, Mr Reed. And, like machines, they can be modified. A physique can be sculpted. Body chemistry can be optimised. Mental pathways can be honed and corrected to a more pleasing form. Deviant behaviour can be negatively re-enforced until it extinguishes."

Malcolm frowned. "The eyes though, how are they DOING that? How are they BLINKING?"

The demon sighed. "Oh dear. Allow me to simplify. Would you prefer that what has happened to you not happen again?"

"Yes."

The demon nodded, pleased. "Then, are you willing to endure such things as must be endured, in order to mitigate the risk of recurrence, Mr Reed?"

 _...Some of those eels- but were they eels, or were they intestines?- are definitely alive. They coiled and writhed within their jars. They might be glowing, actually..._

"MR REED?"

 _I want to go home_ , is what Malcolm thought. _I want to go home, and to go back in time, and to disappear._

But what he said was "Yes."

The first syringe slid into him. On the other end of it, the demon whispered. "Then let's begin."


	26. San Francisco 2148

**The Golden Odalisque Restaurant - San Francisco 2148**

* * *

"We'll be having a guest joining us tonight," Forrest announced through a mouth full of dessert. Around them, music and ostensibly genteel conversation swirled, at the correct relative volumes.

"Oh? A _guest_?" Hoshi inquired, feigning shocked modesty - because she knew by now that he liked it - but mentally flicking back through her notes from the appropriate class. "Are you blackmailing someone I don't know about?"

Forrest chuckled, and spooned another chunk of blancmange into his mouth.

Hoshi noticed the little flecks of the white, gelatine mass between his teeth and forcibly settled her gorge. The man really should learn how to chew with his mouth closed.

"No, not blackmail. Not this time anyway. A volunteer."

"A volunteer?" Hoshi replied, this time feigning subtle arousal.

"Yes," Forrest replied, then added, a slight edge to his voice. "A Vulcan."

Hoshi straightened against the back of her chair. "I hope you don't expect me to play the subservient to a Vulcan," she hissed, although immediately adding, "unless that is your wish."

Forrest smiled. "I just want to see a _show_ , my flower. I am happy to leave the stage direction up to you. I'm sure that your education is more than up to the task. Ah, look! Here she is now. Right on time."

Hoshi refused to turn her head, and so waited in irritation, until this Vulcan entered her line of sight. She timed her laugh, so it would spray into T'Pol's face, as she sat down. "Oh, _THIS_ Vulcan. Quite the epicentre of intrigue. How delicious."

"T'Pol will be joining us on _Enterprise_ , once construction is complete," Forrest said through yet another bite of blancmange, this one marinated in a mouth full of bourbon. "She has turned out to be quite the prodigy with defensive scanners."

" _Enterprise_!" Hoshi pouted, on queue.

"Hoshi is founding a school of the courtesan arts in Brazil," Forrest explained for T'Pol's benefit. "She is most displeased that quelling the rebellion is likely to take us into space, for a few years."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "A school for the courtesan arts? Training your own replacements... how _altruistic_ of you."

Hoshi crinkled her nose. "Teaching is a passion of mine. I can think of a few lessons I am going to teach you this evening. I do hope you can take _correction_."

Forrest eyed them both, hungrily. "I think we shall adjourn to more comfortable surrounds, don't you, ladies?"

As Forrest paid cheques, greased palms, and organised transport, Hoshi stood beside the Vulcan, refusing to face her, and wearing what she knew was a glittering, but empty smile.

"I can smell Jonathan Archer on you," the Vulcan hissed to her, while Forrest was beyond hearing. "And, always remember, I can kill you with a flick of my wrist."

Hoshi's smile, smelted and forged by years of such trifling threats as these, never faltered. " _And_ , with a few words from _me_ , you could be stripped, mutilated, and nailed to a pool-table, in a MACO rec-hall. You don't want me as an enemy."

T'Pol sneered. "I don't want you _at all_. Either of you"

In reply, Hoshi shrugged. Then, smoothing the front of T'Pol's elegant silk gown with her hands, she added, "And yet, so the world turns."


	27. ISS Enterprise 2149

**ISS Enterprise NX-01 (under construction)**

 **Orbital Dry Dock Facility 2149**

* * *

There was still work left to do. There were hanging cables, exposed and sparking wires. Years of work. And yet, something had changed today with the reactor installation. It has as if the engine's dark heart had thundered to life. Charles imagined that he could feel the delta-radiation subtly heating the air.

"Well, here I am, Elizabeth," he muttered. "Chief Engineer of a goddamn _starship_." He closed his eyes against the cavernous expanse of the quietly thrumming room, and saw the chain of events stretching out behind him. A chain that started with his sister's murder, in a hovel, in a toxic swamp, and ended... here. "Of course, this delta-radiation shit is gonna kill me one day!"

"Oh, I don't know about that," a voice answered; not Elizabeth, but a different kind of ghost altogether. The name on the crew roster which had, inexplicably, shaken him more than any other.

 _Major Malcom Reed_.

"I don't know about that," the Major repeated, taking two, three, four steps towards Charles. "Plenty of other things that might kill you first."

Charles smiled uneasily. "Well, here's hoping?"

Reed did not reply.

"Bit of a coincidence, us both ending up here..." Charles said to fill the silence. He should ask Reed to leave. _Demand_ he leave. He was chief engineer and this was the engine room.

But somehow he couldn't.

Somehow the very words dried on his tongue.

"Scarcely a coincidence," Reed replied flatly. "The cabal of admirals made Forrest captain, which, inevitably, made Archer first officer, which placed me here too. And Admiral Black's office recommended you personally."

Charles flinched at the mention of that particular rumour. "People keep saying that. Don't make it true. I've never even met Black to remember him."

Reed smiled grimly. "Oh, you haven't figured that one out yet? You are a late-bloomer, aren't you? You should pay more attention to the Vulcans."

Charles nodded without understanding.

Reed stepped closer. Five steps, six, seven. "Well, you may not have ever met _Black_ , but you and _Forrest_ certainly go back a'ways. Old friends perhaps, because, as I understand it, you share _all sorts_ of information with him."

This, Charles realised, with rapidly growing dread, he _DID_ understand.

And Reed was moving closer. Eight steps. Nine.

"Look," Charles said. "I'm sorry about that... I shouldn't have repeated what... I should have been more discrete."

Reed cocked his head slightly. "I do wonder what I ever did to earn such animosity from you."

"Nothing," Charles replied uneasily, listening hard in the faint hope he might hear someone friendly around. "Look, it was an accident. I have no problem with you. It seems to me that you were decent to T'Pol, in your way..."

Reed frowned. "In my way?"

Charles continued hurriedly, and gripped the tool he was holding - an unfortunately light tool - more tightly. "It... look... it just came out. I didn't mean anything by it. I didn't want anything to happen. Forrest was just sort of glaring at me, making fun of me and T'Pol, and... you don't understand, okay? You can't. I need these people more than you do. You have money. You have a home and a family to fall back on. All that stands between me and disaster is the good-will of these people, and..."

"Disaster?" Reed interrupted softly. "What sort of disaster?"

"I've got nothing else, Reed... Malcolm... just, try to put yourself in my place, okay? I was a whore before, in Florida, and without these people, without this career, that's the only choice really open to me. And I can't do it, okay? I can't go back to that. To that place. To that life."

Reed nodded slowly. "Yes... I think I do understand, Charles - may I call you Charles? I mean, its not that uncommon, is it? You see plenty of low-born, but attractive, women parlay their virtue into a military career. Trying to build a better life for themselves, in the few years before that attractiveness fades. It's to be admired, really, that sort of forward-thinking. Now, you don't see quite as many men trying it, but, here YOU are, striking a blow for gender equality! _Jolly-good show, old man, what what!_ "

Ten steps, Eleven steps.

Charles wondered if he shouted for help, if anyone would come.

"... and now, tragically, Charles, now that you have made it, you still fear falling back into a life of prostitution. But, it's all far simpler than you think. See, you just need the proper incentive. If you _can't_ go back to earning a living a whore with the help of your good-looks, then you'll _HAVE_ to make this life work. Because, you'll have no other choice. And, luckily for you, Charles, I'm here to help."

Charles did swing the tool then, with some force, and aimed it well, but unfortunately the blow was arrested when Reed activated a concealed cattle-prod right against Charles's chest.

Charles fell to the floor, gasping for air. The muscles of his ribs and diaphragm refused to coordinate themselves enough for him to take a breath. Even as the world began to swim around him, he felt Reed pick him up, as if he weighted no more than one of Elizabeth's dolls, and press the slide of his face against the metal casing of the reactor. For a second, it felt cold, then hot, then he heard himself screaming.

At the very edge of his consciousness, Charles saw Reed lean in close and theatrically inhale the smell of burning flesh, and he heard a voice - Archer's- calling out.

"Reed. For fuck's sake, put him down. We have bigger fish to _fry_."

Then Reed laughed.


	28. ISS Enterprise 2149 Part II

**ISS Enterprise NX-01 (under construction)**

 **Orbital Dry Dock Facility 2149**

* * *

She watched him from the shadows. Watched from the left-hand side.

At a certain point, he became aware she was there, although he never indicated as such, and she, in turn became aware of his awareness.

Finally, when the shift ended, when the room emptied, he spoke to her. "I know you are there."

She stepped out into lesser shadows and answered. "I know."

" _WHY_ are you there?"

There was an edge of anger to his voice, of bitterness of rage. She couldn't even tell anymore if it was justified. Who could say, in a life such as this one?

"I need your help," she replied, and clarified before he could refuse her. "I need _YOU_."

He laughed, and turned to face her fully. "Really?"

She forced herself to look at his face - all of it - without recoiling.

It was easier than she expected.

"Yes," she replied. And then she said "Ponn Farr is beginning." He would know what that was.

He inhaled mirthlessly. "If you have to fuck anyway, T'Pol, why not fuck someone who matters?"

"No," she replied. Immediately. _Too quickly_. "Ponn Farr is intimate. It is vulnerable. I want you. Only you."

"Well, then sure," he replied, aggressively downing tools. "I'm no threat to you. So why not?"

She hadn't meant it that way. But pressing her case seemed pointless; he was following her. She had what she came for.

The found a small, out of the way place, and moved with in it, more gracefully and with more knowledge of the space than either one could have managed alone.

"I feel you sometimes," he said. "Inside my mind. What does that mean?"

She stroked a strand of hair away from his forehead. "It means nothing. Do not concern yourself."

"I don't like the idea of you in my head," he replied. "My father was wiser than I thought. He named you without ever meeting you."

T'Pol sighed. "We all must serve forces greater than ourselves. But I have no intention of ever betraying you."

"Yeah," he snorted. "But would you tell me if you did?"

She could only answer truthfully. "I would not."

"Do you love me?" he asked.

"I would not tell you that either."

Around them, the engine of the Terran Empire thrummed.

* * *

 **The end.**

 **Thank you all for reading and reviewing!**


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